Guns aren't Art!
by falling into heaven
Summary: Fiona breaks into Michael's loft and eats his yoghurt. Again. A fight ensues about her career. Again. A normal morning for Michael and Fiona.


Hey, my first Burn Notice fic, despite LOVING the series, and the Mike/Fi dynamic. And just for the record, Victor has been the most AWESOME character so far. I loved him, I really did. Hence, he died. My favourites always die. Ask anyone who reads my CSI:NY stories; Aiden, Angell... then Adam in Spooks, _Ros _in Spooks... sucks, really.

So I hope you enjoy, and please review. I accept anonymous reviews, so if you're a lurker, don't be afraid to tell me what you think! I don't bite, much...

PS; does anyone watch Rookie Blue? Most freakin' awesome cop show _ever! _Sam/Andy ftw! We WILL beat Andy/Luke, even if it kills us. Ben Bass, very cute. Ha.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish it was. Really wish.

* * *

"You know, you really need to buy some more yoghurt."

I turned over to find my ex-girlfriend sat at the kitchen counter, eating the last of my yoghurts. The blueberry one, no less. Having your ex-girlfriend around when she was capable of blowing up... well, anything was pretty handy in my line of work, but her IRA training was a pain in the ass when she used it to _break in_ to my apartment (if you could really label it as such... I think Sam once referred to it as a rundown hellhole) and eat _my _food. I rolled my eyes and wrapped the sheet around myself. Though it was hard to maintain some semblance of modesty with Fi around with her elevator eyes and leering I thought only men were capable of, I could at least try. "Good mornin', Fi. Shut your eyes."

She pouted beautifully. "Mike... really?"

_As a covert operative, you have to deal with beautiful foreign operatives using their looks and charms to con you out of anything from a few bucks to state secrets you're meant to be guarding with your life. After a few mishaps, you learn that thinking of your dead dog and drowning cats is not such a bad thing. You learn the basic tricks including faking homosexuality, but as of yet, I have yet to resist the charms of a trigger-happy Irishwoman who happens to be a constant pain in my ass._

I glared at her. "Fi!"

Huffing slightly, she shut her eyes obligingly. "I really don't see what the problem is, Michael. I mean, it's not like I've not-"

"Fi, respectfully... shut up." I pulled on a pair of sweatpants from the floor where they had been carelessly discarded the previous night. "You cannot keep breaking in here! You do have a key. I know that, because you _blackmailed _me into giving you one, _despite _the security risk."

She shrugged, eyes still shut. "Not as much satisfaction involved as picking the lock and being able to bust the door open. What can I say? Breaking stuff turns me on."

"I thought that was blowing stuff up."

"Either will do."

I grabbed her spoon away from her as her eyes snapped open, scooping up the last of the yoghurt. Before she could protest, I chipped in with "'S my yoghurt."

She glared at me. "Next time, I'm kicking your door down."

"It's reinforced." I shrugged. "So please, go ahead and break your foot. But when you do, don't expect me to drive you to hospital."

Fiona shrugged. "After you got me shot in the shoulder in Dublin, I managed to drive half an hour to the hospital. I'll manage with a broken foot."

I snorted, pushing her from the seat and taking it myself. She stood directly in front of me, simmering.

_When someone looks at you like they'd quite like to kill you, you can do one of two things. You can either run very quickly in the opposite direction, or you can restrain them. While the first option is less dangerous, it fails spectacularly when you know you opponent happens to be a whole lot faster than you. Then, resraining them is pretty much the only way to avoid death._

I stood up slowly, grasping her slim wrists. "Fi, if you would just calm down-"

"You know I don't like people taking my seat, Michael." She fumed, sweeping her foot around mine, knocking me to the floor. My head cracked against the hardwood, causing my vision to blur. But I was still aware of Fiona pinning me, thanks to the sharp pain in my wrists as they were twisted above my head, her knee pressed into my stomach.

"Fi!"

"Michael." she replied amicably. I suppose she didn't really have a need to be snappy - she was the one in control.

I saw her reach for her bag, and my heart skipped a beat.

_As a covert operative, you learn a few things about explosives. Although C4 is relatively stable when carried around in putty blocks, if you are over seventy percent sure the carrier has mixed it with a highly unstable, volitile explosive which is liable to not only blow your home to high heavens, but you both right into the pearly gates (or firey pits of hell, depending on how oftern you attend church) it's best not to let her get hold of her purse._

Twisting my hips sharply, I flipped us over, trapping Fi's lithe body beneath mine. "If you blow up my apartment, I will-"

She wriggled impatiently. "Mike, I was going for my cell phone. It's ringing."

Sitting up, I heard a muffled rendition of 'Take Control'. Seeing my smirk, she quickly growled "came with the phone". I reached over and tossed her the cell, sliding off her.

"Fiona." she announced in a singsong voice. "Yes... Nope, not for less than one thousand. Look, I can sell them for twice that, but I'm giving you a special offer. You keep screwing me around, and-" Fiona leaned back against me. I could feel her sigh, a clear sign of impatience. Fairly soon, she was going to start mixing Molotov cocktails. "I'm going to make this clear. If you threaten me again, you'll be taking a permenant retirement, okay?"

I rested a hand lightly against her waist, protectively pulling her tighter against me. "What are they saying?"

Fiona patted my hand reassuringly. "Don't worry Mike. I got it covered. Oh, that?" she switched her attention back to her buyer. "Mike's my... close friend. He's quite protective, you see. Hmm? Oh, yeah... two black belts in martial arts, and a sharp shooter. ...Tomorrow? Sure, that could work. Take care!"

I waited until she hung up. "Sharp shooter?"

"What?" asked Fi innocently. "Should I have told him I'm a better tactical analysis expert than you, and also just as handy with a gun? C'mon, I was exadgerrating!"

"Fi, what the _hell _are you mixed up in?" I demanded, my hand pressed against her hip, glaring at nothing in particular. Fiona had the talent to infuriate me, and make me fall madly in love at the same time. It was quite unfortunate.

"Well you can't be the only person to make a quick buck, Mike." she dismissed my concerns easily. Twisting to brush her lips against my cheek, she shot me a smile. "You worried about me, Michael?"

"Always." I growled, almost as irked by the feeling in the first place as my unwilling compulsion to blurt it out to her. "It's not like you give me a choice! If you would just learn to _be careful..._"

She rolled her eyes dramatically, standing up. "Don't be such a worrier, Michael. Takes all the fun out of life if you watch your back all the time. Don't you ever get bored of tactical analysis?" she asked, cocking her head, pouting beautifully. I hate it when she does that. It works every time, and she knows it.

"No." I replied immeadiately. "And I get that you like spontenaeity, Fi. But when you insist on spending all of your time 'round gun dealers, it throws up some problems!"

"And again with the gun running! I'm just like an art dealer. It's not that big of a deal, Michael!"

"Guns aren't art, Fi!" I replied in exasperation, standing up in desperate hope that my height advantage would give me some psychological advantage, and therefore some sort of control over the argument (though it could be argued that an argument with Fiona wasn't an argument until a punch was thrown or a shot fired).

She looked insulted. "michael, do you understand the craft it takes to manufacture a beautiful weapon? To care for it, use it correctly... there's more art in a Browning M9 than in some painting in a museum!"

I had to admit, she had a point. However, I didn't have to admit that to _her_. "Fi... please?"

Fiona sighed. "Fine, Michael. I'll wacth my back, if it makes you happy."

"It does."

As she looked at me, I felt the calm wash over the room like a wave. the fighting was done, for now. Though undoubtedly, the conversation would come up again soon. I watched as she smiled one last time, turning on her heel and striding towards the door, calling over her shoulder, "Your mom called. The disposal's blocked. I have an errand, so I'll catch up with you later."

_As a covert operative, you have to learn to expect that people you care about are going to end up in some dangerous situations. That's why so many spies learn to compartmentalise; doing so lowers the risk of the people you love staring down the barrel of an AK47. But when those people do so willingly, you have to learn to adjust. otherwise, you just might find yourself going crazy._


End file.
